Thornfield Hall Read online

  Jane Stubbs studied English at London University. She went on to teach the subject to a variety of ages in colleges and schools. As well as raising a family, she has worked for various charities, has written a weekly column for a Scottish newspaper, and has won prizes for her short stories.

  Published in paperback in Great Britain in 2014 by Corvus, an imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd.

  Copyright © Jane Stubbs, 2014

  The moral right of Jane Stubbs to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities, is entirely coincidental.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Paperback ISBN: 978 1 782 39524 9

  E-book ISBN: 978 1 7823 9523 2

  Printed in Great Britain.

  Corvus

  An imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd

  Ormond House

  26–27 Boswell Street

  London

  WC1N 3JZ

  www.corvus-books.co.uk

  To Alan who understood

  CONTENTS

  Acknowledgements

  My First Mr Rochester: 1821

  My Third Mr Rochester: 1822

  Grace: 1823

  The Lady: 1823

  Monsieur Alphonse: 1824–5

  The Incident in the Library: 1826

  The Honourable Blanche Ingram: 1827

  Adele: 1831

  A Year of Tumultuous Events: 1832

  The House Party: 1832

  Bertha’s Story: 1832

  Summer: 1832

  Calling the Banns: 1832

  A Country Wedding: 1832

  An Eventful Day in July: 1832

  My Mad Mr Rochester: 1832

  The Harvest: 1832

  Martha and I Join the Gentry: 1832

  Postscript: 1833

  Q&A with Author Jane Stubbs

  Reading Group Questions

  Other Characters from the Classics that Could Have their Story Told

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Thanks are due to many people. Here are some of them:

  First and foremost to Charlotte Brontë for writing a novel so full of vivid life that it is possible to walk about her creation and look behind the scenes.

  To Teresa Chris for finding a publisher.

  To Atlantic for bringing my infant to full term.

  To the late Maggie Batteson, Pat Hadler, Mary Sharratt and Cath Staincliffe for their patient reading and helpful comments on my apprentice pieces.

  Last but not least to A G de C Smale, she of the elegant initials who first introduced me to the glories of the English language and to all the others who followed in her footsteps.

  MY FIRST MR ROCHESTER

  1821

  IT WAS AFTER I’D GONE TO MY FIRST MR ROCHESTER that my hair turned white. They do say it can happen overnight through disease or grief. In my case it was not so dramatic. Day by day the gold in my hair gently faded away until it was a pure snowy white. There I was, not yet forty and I had the hair of an old woman. I cannot blame illness for my transformation but I do think grief played its part. There had been many bereavements in my life, and in going to Thornfield Hall as housekeeper I said farewell to something that I had been raised from a child to regard as precious beyond rubies. According to my mother its preservation was as vital to an unmarried girl as her virginity. Like a maidenhead it was something to be treasured, not disposed of carelessly in an idle moment, for once lost it could never be recovered. I refer not to my virginity, which is long gone, but to my place in society. By being employed as a paid servant I was cast out from that privileged class of beings – the gentry.

  My mother was gentry. As the daughter of a gentleman and the widow of a clergyman she claimed it as her birthright. She clung desperately to this status. It seemed to console her for the poverty and the meagreness of her life. Throughout my rather miserable childhood she drummed into me the importance of this mystical privilege that a gentlewoman must at all costs cherish and preserve. Never mind that we dined on crusts and scraps and had no fire before six o’clock of an evening; we were gentry and we had a servant to prove it, some poor unfortunate twelve-year-old village girl cozened into washing our dishes for a few pennies a week. If my mother ever discovered that I had swapped genteel poverty and semi-starvation for the good food and warmth enjoyed by the servants of a wealthy man she would turn in her grave.

  For that is where she is. She left this world early but not before she contrived to see me suitably settled in life. Marriage was the only path open to me; my mother’s constant lectures made that clear. I sleep-walked to my wedding. I woke one day to find I was married to the parson of the church in the village of Hay. Now a parson, no matter how poor he is, always counts as gentry. He will be invited to the big house for lunch during the week or supper on a Sunday. He will go to the front door and a servant will take his hat. The parson’s wife, therefore, counts as gentry. And so my mother died happy that she had done right by me.

  I was not with my parson for long. Just time enough to have and to lose one beautiful baby girl. Then the coughing sickness took my parson the next winter and by spring the new incumbent was knocking on the door of the parsonage. Mr Wood, the replacement for my husband, had a pack of children and he was anxious to introduce them to their new home and to see the back of me. I was at a loss as to what to do.

  My late husband was a sweet-tempered and mild-mannered man. He was very much a follower of the New Testament; he trusted in the Lord to provide. Consider the lilies of the field. Lay not treasures up for yourself on earth. That sort of thing. I am more of an Old Testament person myself. I like the drama of it: the feuds, the plots and the adultery. Perhaps that’s why the Lord did not see fit to provide for me when I became a widow.

  With no home and no income I became that most uncomfortable thing, a distant relative in need. My late husband was a Fairfax so I applied to his family. They sighed and held up their hands to show they were empty. They shuffled me about from house to house whenever there was extra work to be done. I sat up nights with the dying. I nursed the sick. While the family went away to the seaside I stayed to supervise the spring cleaning. They derived much satisfaction from being such exemplary Christians as to feed me and give me a roof over my head. They conveniently forgot that unlike a servant I received no wages.

  It was an interesting if precarious life. A second cousin summoned me to help when her third baby was due. Her two lovely boys were soon joined by a baby girl. Such a pleasant time I had. I grew very fond of the children and began to hope I might make a real home with the family. One morning I was in the nursery supervising the children at their breakfast. The baby wriggled on my knee as I spooned porridge into her. Their mother arrived in her dressing gown with a letter in her hand. She waved it at me as she gave me the news. The wife of old Mr Rochester of Thornfield Hall had died; she too had been a Fairfax. To my second cousin the news was not all bad; she saw an opportunity to move me on.

  ‘I’m sure Mr Rochester would be grateful for some help at this sad time, Alice. Especially from a female relation. Someone he could trust to deal with all those things his wife always dealt with. Men know nothing about
running a house. You know what I mean: keep the housemaids in order, tell cook the soup was salty. I’ll be sorry to see you go,’ she said, ‘but I won’t need so much help soon. The boys will be away to school in the autumn.’

  I could see her mind working. She was thinking, Thornfield Hall is a large house. There must be a room somewhere that a parson’s widow could occupy. She could do a little light needlework. She does not eat much. A bit of a fire in the winter. Old Mr Rochester is a man of property and wealth; he would not let a connection of his wife’s starve. He would lend her back to me if, God forbid, I have another baby.

  I was angry. And I was jealous. She had everything I had been denied. She had a husband with an income while I was a penniless widow. She had three healthy children while I had lain to rest my one baby girl who had scarcely drawn a breath. The rage churned about in my bosom all day. I hammered it down while I smiled and played with the boys and stroked the baby’s soft hair. I knew I would be saying farewell to them soon.

  My late husband always said his prayers before he lay down to sleep. In the morning he frequently claimed that his prayers had been answered. That night I berated God. I gave it to him hot and strong, told him that he had been unreasonably harsh in his dealings with me. I put it to him fair and square. I do not think my long and bitter diatribe could be regarded as a proper prayer but to my surprise I awoke with my mind clear and with a settled plan for determined action. You could say that my prayers had been answered.

  I wrote to old Mr Rochester, with whom I was already acquainted. I reminded him that not only was I a Fairfax, I was also the widow of the parson at Hay whose church was close to the gates of Thornfield Hall. I included a suggestion that would have shocked my second cousin if I had been so foolish as to reveal it to her. I received an encouraging response. Some haggling followed but in the end I struck a bargain with the senior Mr Rochester that suited both of us. I knew how to run a house with economy and he could trust me not to steal the spoons. I became the paid housekeeper at Thornfield Hall.

  Suddenly I wasn’t gentry anymore. I was a servant, an upper servant to be sure, but a servant nonetheless. My second cousin went through a range of emotions. She was shocked that I had chosen to lose caste, angry that she could no longer call upon my unpaid services and finally relieved that the Fairfaxes could with clear consciences wash their hands of me. This they did with alacrity. I was on my own. It was frightening but also exhilarating. I squashed the flutterings of doubt that beat in my breast and set off to take up my new duties.

  Mr Merryman, the butler, greeted me on my arrival at Thornfield Hall. I never saw anyone so unsuited to his name; his lugubrious face with its hanging jowls reminded me of the dogs they use for hunting hares and rabbits. Mr Merryman took it upon himself to ensure that I learnt how to do things properly. He would dine with me in the housekeeper’s room. Our meals would be brought on a tray by one of the lower servants.

  ‘We,’ he informed me, ‘are senior servants. Sometimes we are known as “pugs” because we wear a serious expression with our mouths turned down like the pug dogs.’ He gestured to his own face with its drooping mouth. ‘Sometimes,’ he sighed, ‘I think it’s permanent; I’ve done it for so long.’ As he showed me round the house Mr Merryman explained various other matters that he thought it important for me to know about my new position. As a mark of respect I would be called Mrs Fairfax by both the staff and the family, rather than just ‘Fairfax’ as if I were a chambermaid.

  Only two members of the family lived at the Hall. They were old Mr Rochester and his elder son Rowland. I remembered a younger son, Mr Edward, from my time at the parsonage in Hay. He was an open-faced friendly lad, usually whistling as he rode his horse about the countryside, but he had gone to live abroad somewhere.

  As housekeeper I would wear my own clothes rather than a uniform. I promptly ordered a black silk dress to celebrate my new status as a woman who earned her own income. Mr Merryman explained to me that visitors sometimes came when the family was away. These callers might ask to be shown round the house. I was free to oblige them, as long as they were gentry of course. Mr Merryman tapped the side of his nose and for a moment his eyes twinkled in his sad face. ‘Tips!’ He gave me a knowing look. ‘Good tips and all yours.’

  My bedroom was to be near the master’s bedroom. As I was closely connected to the family it was thought more suitable. Mr Merryman had his own room on the next floor, close to where the servants slept. He liked to keep an eye on the young footmen, who could be quite frisky. All in all, Mr Merryman felt Thornfield Hall was a good house to work in. To be sure the wages were modest as old Mr Rochester was very near with his money, as we say in Yorkshire, but he kept a good table and there were enough staff to carry out the work of running a large house.

  I soon got to know the staff. Leah, the under housemaid, quickly became a favourite of mine. There was Sam, officially a footman but really a Jack of all trades. He had been in the navy and had seen more of the world than any of us. There was a new footman, called John, though his given name was Timothy. It was the custom among the gentry to refer to footmen as John; it saved them having to remember their real names. The head coachman, who had been christened John, was usually called Old John to distinguish him from the footman. His wife Mary was the cook. These five formed the backbone of the staff. I soon discovered they were all fine honest people who knew their duties and carried them out well. There was a sprinkling of scullery maids, laundry maids, kitchen and stable boys who came and went as they learned their trade and moved on in the world. The only thorn in my flesh was Martha, the upper housemaid.

  She was the most unbiddable girl I have ever come across. A great clumsy galumphing thing. She laid the breakfast table as if she was dealing cards. There was always a reason why she couldn’t do as she was asked. If I told her to take the coal to the dining room she would do it later – she was on her way to answer the bell in the drawing room. Ask her to dust the hall and she would have to go and change her apron and would not be seen again until tea time. She was lazy and sharp-tongued with a neat way of passing the blame to the other servants. When Martha broke a vase it was Leah who was found sweeping up the shards of porcelain.

  By searching out these and other examples of her bad behaviour I quickly found abundant reasons to justify my dislike of Martha. The real reason was deeper and more shameful. When Mr Rochester gave me a bedroom near his I had wondered if he might be minded to inflict some indignities on me. Innocent parson’s wife I might be but even I knew such things happened. Sometimes in the mornings as I left my room to go about my duties old Mr Rochester would call to me from his bedroom. At first I hovered in the doorway to listen to his complaints. He had not slept well. The joints of his fingers were swollen and painful. Soon I was entering his room and rubbing his hands. Then it was his shoulders. Matters did not progress much further. To be honest I took no offence at giving him these small attentions. He was an old man who had lost his wife and who missed the touch of a woman’s hand.

  Martha was never punctual in her duties. For her the clock was just a tiresome picture on the wall. She arrived very early one morning with the hot water and caught me leaving Mr Rochester’s room. I wore my nightgown under my dressing gown, and my hair, still golden then, hung loose about my shoulders. I told Martha sharply that the master had called me in as he felt unwell. To give the master his due, he played up to the fiction nicely by staying in bed for the rest of the morning. He drew the line at sending for Carter, the surgeon. That would have cost him money.

  I was never sure that Martha believed me.

  In spite of this minor worry, for a year or so I was able to enjoy a very pleasant existence, until the course of my life was upset by the cold hand of death. His icy fingers were not laid upon old Mr Rochester as you might expect but upon Mr Rowland, the elder son. Mr Rowland was not my favourite person. He was a whey-faced lanky creature, always indoors doing his calculations or peering through his magnifying glass. He wa
s the kind of boy who pulled the wings off flies, or captured harmless insects as they were going about their lawful business and stuck pins in them. Science he called it. Well, science didn’t do him much good. He went gallivanting off to visit a coal mine in the north where they had one of those new-fangled steam engines. In the interest of science, no doubt, he went too close to the machine and got himself crushed by the metal monster. He died of his injuries before they could carry him home.

  Old Mr Rochester took it very hard. The lawyers came with long faces and talked to him about the future and advised him to call his younger son, Mr Edward, home. He wouldn’t hear of it, just shook his head and poured out more port. The only comfort he could find was at the table. I’ve lost count of the roast dinners he ate without adding an ounce of fat to his skinny frame. We servants tip-toed round the house and shared our fears in whispers. Our master was a broken man and his lawful heir was in exile. Our futures looked very insecure.

  One evening Mr Rochester rose from the table having dined on roast duck with green peas. He had drunk with it a bottle of claret. Afterwards he sluiced down a bowl of Bavarian cream and demolished half a pound of Wensleydale cheese. ‘Damn fine—’ he began. His compliment was interrupted as he clutched at his throat and fell backwards against the sideboard. I will never know whether it was the duck, the pudding or the cheese that had taken his fancy.

  The footmen helped him to his bed. Old John sat up with him that night. In the morning old Mr Rochester was dead. Mr Carter, the surgeon, scratched his head as he felt for the pulse that was not to be found. ‘Don’t understand it. He was fit as a flea.’ Not one to worry overmuch about minor details Mr Carter declared, ‘I suppose I should call it a Visitation of God but I hate to give Parson Wood any excuse to be more self-important than he already is. I’ll call it an apoplexy. We don’t want to be bothering the coroner. You were here when he died, Mrs Fairfax, so you can register the death. Tell the parson to arrange the funeral.’ With that he picked up his hat and his riding crop and took his leave briskly; the hunt was meeting that day.